Chapter 1 #2
I choke on the sip of my drink I just took and offer an apologetic smile at the old lady sitting at the table to my right.
Then I turn back to Mr Inappropriate. “Firstly, the plural of octopus is octopi, and just because you can doesn’t mean you should.
” I narrow my eyes. “And octopi should always be aware of that homily, lest they lose a fucking tentacle. One of the important ones,” I add.
Nigel goes a little pale, and there’s a soft sound from my left. I glance over to see the man who dropped his cutlery has returned to his table. His chair faces away from me, but I note how his navy jumper clings to his broad shoulders and how his thick, dark hair looks very soft.
I roll my eyes at myself. I’m here to meet Nigel, not ogle random blokes.
But it’s impossible not to hear the Devon drawl in the cutlery man’s voice when he speaks to a waitress who’s picking up dirty dishes. It twangs that chord of memory again.
Nigel coughs, and I drag my attention back to him. “I must say this is a novel sort of thing to do before the main event,” he says.
I consider Nigel’s statement, but for the life of me, I cannot stop wondering about the cutlery man.
I must have met him somewhere before. The connection hovers at the edge of my brain, just out of reach.
Or maybe it’s just the longing I’d felt a few minutes ago—that old, homesick feeling for Devon’s green fields.
I turn, craning my neck to get a better glimpse of cutlery man.
Perhaps he’ll turn, and I’ll see his face—
“Georgie?” Nigel prompts.
I tip my head at him and remember the odd thing he’d just said. “What’s novel?” I ask. “And what main event? We’re not going to the wedding until next week.”
“But I thought you wanted to do it now.”
I blink. “How on earth could I bring the wedding forward? I’m only a guest, and they take years to plan, you know, with all that booking a church and reception. Not to mention all the invitations.” I pause and say darkly, “Even last-minute invitations like mine.”
His brow furrows. “Look, I know that people make things up as part of this sort of thing, but I’ve only got an hour for lunch, so we might have to hurry up this part of the thing.
” He leans forward and says in a slightly robotic tone of voice, “Hey, babe. You look amazing. I’m so glad we’re together.
It’s been the best five years of my life. ”
“What?”
“Shit. Is it five years or three? I can’t remember.
” He shrugs. “Surely it doesn’t matter.” He takes my hand, and I immediately try to pull back, but it’s no good.
He’s got a grip like the aforementioned octopus.
It’s also a little sweaty. “Dearest darling, how I wish these were our nuptials. Oh, Georgie, you’re the light of my life. ”
“What is going on right now?” I say faintly. The old lady next to us is leaning so close she’s going to fall off her chair in a minute, and I can’t help noticing that the stranger with the lovely accent has stiffened and seems to be listening intently.
Nigel frowns. “I thought you wanted to role-play at going to a wedding.”
“Pardon?”
He waves a hand. “Yeah. You and me pretending to be wedding guests. Blah blah blah. I have to say I didn’t realise there was so much involved in role play.
It’s got to be a bit of a niche fetish, surely.
I’d lose my erection if I had to think this hard all the time, not to mention go over all the details in the stuff you sent me. ”
“I didn’t send you that much.”
“Mate, the bloke who wrote War and Peace would feel inadequate.” He winks. Either that, or he’s got a twitch. “But don’t worry. I can still function. You’re pretty enough to revive even the droopiest of stems if you get my meaning.”
“Your meaning is like being hit in the face with a shovel.” The cutlery man doesn’t manage to hide his laugh, but I ignore him in favour of staring at Nigel. “I don’t think this is quite what we spoke about.”
“Why isn’t it?” He frowns. “I’m here. You’re here. Let’s do this.”
“What a lovely motivational speech.”
“Thanks. I’m thinking of going into that. It’s got to be better than selling taps.” He leers at me. “We’ll be fine. Let’s get on with it.”
“But… But I haven’t even seen you in your suit,” I squeak. I feel like I’m losing grip on my sanity, and it’s drifting off into the sunset. I’d imagined a nice little chat. Not being propositioned in such an odd way.
“You certainly have,” he says indignantly. “I sent you a picture of me in my suit.”
“What? No, you didn’t.”
He rolls his eyes. “On the app. Check it out. I’m quite proud of that one. I might use it again.”
I grab my phone, click on the app, and select the plus one form from the drop-down menu. “There’s nothing here…”
The last few minutes replay in my mind, and I see them in a new light. The penny slowly drops, making a noise like an avalanche in my ears. “Shit.”
“Don’t you like it? My thighs are thick, and I think spreading my legs makes them look even better.”
With a sense of doom, I click on the hookup part of the app. Avatars immediately load for nearby men. I’m always slightly titivated by how many potential hookups there are floating around me. It’s a part of living in London, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
Each part of the app has a separate message box, and I swallow hard as I see a little red tick on mine showing an unread message. I take a breath and click on it, waiting as the image slowly loads.
When the picture finally becomes clear, I suck in a breath.
“Yeah, it’s good, isn’t it?” Nigel says in a pleased voice. “It’s sometimes hard to get everything in the frame when you haven’t got a tripod for the long shot, but I think I managed very well.”
“Yes, everything down there seems to be accounted for.” I shake my head. “I asked for you in a suit,” I say in a dazed voice.
“And I gave you that. My birthday suit.”
“Well, it’s not something Moss Bros would encourage,” I say primly.
The cutlery man makes a sound like air escaping, and I shoot a look at his muscular back before refocusing on the disaster that’s happening in real time at my table. “I think I might have made a teeny mistake.”
“What’s up?” Nigel leans forward. “Surely, you’re not bothered by a bit of nakedness. Didn’t you say you were a life model?”
“I did. I just didn’t realise that might inspire you to take pictures of your knob and send them to me.”
The words fall into one of those funny pockets of silence, and the old woman at the next table spits her hot chocolate out. I hand her a serviette and turn back to my ginger Don Juan. “This isn’t going to work. I’m so sorry.”
“Why?” He looks confused, and I can’t really blame him.
“I used the wrong part of the app. I wanted a plus one for a wedding, and I was supposed to be using the classifieds section, but I must have brought up the hookup side.” I shrug. “It’s an easy mistake to make. I’m on that part a lot.”
“Are you?” He leans forward, and I immediately edge back.
“Well, I was,” I say quickly. “But not anymore. In fact, I’m going to delete the stupid app and become a monk.”
“Do they allow life models?”
“Just because I strip off for money doesn’t mean the monastery wouldn’t have me.
I’m sure monks like the naked form as much as the next man,” I say too loudly and then sigh and offer another serviette to the old lady choking on her drink again.
On second thought, I hand her the whole pile.
Then I turn back to my fake boyfriend / creepy hookup. Life is never easy.
“So, I made a mistake. I thought I was getting a fake boyfriend, and you thought you were …” I hesitate. “… doing something else entirely.” I quickly add, “And I’m very sorry to have put you out.”
He grins. “No problem, mate.” He checks his watch. “Sure you don’t fancy a shag? My car’s out the back, and I’ve got ten minutes to fit you in before I’ve got to be back at work.”
“Charming and beautiful as those words were, I think I’m going to have to decline,” I say gravely.
“Your loss.” He stands up and then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a business card. He sets it neatly on the table in front of me. “In case you ever need to buy taps.”
“Thanks so much.”
He touches his forehead in a wonky salute, and then he’s gone, leaving me in another odd pool of silence. “Shit,” I say and bang my head gently on the table a few times. I straighten and look over at the old lady. “It never rains but it pours,” I observe.
She smiles. “Not what you were expecting?”
I brighten. Here is someone who doesn’t react as if I’ve farted in their face by starting up a conversation. Not like everyone else in London. “Not really. I’m not sure who would have been expecting that?”
“So, I gather you were asking him to be a date to a wedding?”
I spread my hands. “Exactly. It’s nice someone was following the conversation properly.
It’s just a shame that it wasn’t my prospective fake boyfriend.
I want someone who knows how to use a knife and fork, doesn’t chew with their mouth open, and can look at me in a besotted way. Is that too much to ask for in life?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve had five husbands.” She gathers her jacket and slides into it before pausing. “What will you do now?”
“Go back to the drawing board, I suppose,” I say glumly. “Although at this stage, I’ve gone back to more drawing boards than Monet.”
“Well, good luck.”
I smile weakly at her and settle back in my chair as she leaves. What am I going to do? The wedding is next week. “I suppose I could try again with the Heart2Heart app,” I say to myself.
“Maybe I could help, Georgie Sanders.”
It takes a second for me to register the words, and when I look up, I see the cutlery man with the nice shoulders has turned around in his chair and is smiling at me.
He has strong, tanned features, with a blade-like nose and sage-green eyes.
The floaty feeling of trying to snag a memory returns, strong enough that my head spins.